


Foie gras (technicalities)

by MathConcepts



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dr. Kozak already believes the end justifies the means, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dubious Science, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Stockholm Syndrome, and Booker would enable that thinking SO HARD, and Dr. Kozak's, and leaving them alone, certain bodily fluids, hello class, switching POV, the Florence Nightingale Effect but twisted, these two are obviously NOT RIGHT, today we will be studying Booker's fucked up mindset, would not go well at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts
Summary: Merrick gets Booker, and no one else. Dr. Kozak gets an interesting new toy. And Booker gets the short end of the stick. (although he pretends not to)Fill for a TOG kinkmeme prompt
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Dr. Meta Kozak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Foie gras (technicalities)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt from theoldguardkinkmeme 
> 
> Date: 2020-08-08 12:24 am (UTC)  
> From: (Anonymous)  
> Instead of agreeing to sell out the team, Booker only volunteers to give himself to Merrick, who gives him to Dr. Kozak. She's delighted with her new lab pet.
> 
> He did, in the most technical and meaningless of terms, consent.
> 
> So, let's have some angsty introspection with a heaping of unethical science practices and dubiously-consented to sex acts, because Booker hasn't been suffering enough.

If Merrick had not let his greed and eagerness blind his want for capital, it might have been all of them here, instead of just him. All of them suffering for his goal. At least it's just him, at least he had the presence of mind not to betray them in the worst possible way.  
  
Small mercies.  
  
He keeps those small mercies in mind when the pain becomes overwhelming, a needle between his ribs - _this might have been Nicky,_ he thinks, - when flesh and bits of organs are carved from him - _this could have been Joe_ \- when he's cut open, over and over - _this could have been Andy_ \- when he dies, shaking and mute from pain and shock - _this could have been the new one, this could have been Nile._  
  
He can't even bring himself to be angry at the doctor who's hands he's suffering under, _technically_ , she's blameless in all of this. He'd been the one to ask for it, ask for all of it, and it's the promise of death, true death at the end that bolsters his resolve, keeps him from begging for mercy.  
  
" _She will give you a cure, and you will give us the future,_ " Merrick had promised him on the day he'd introduced Booker to Dr. Kozak, and now, the woman who is his unofficial jailer. He holds onto those words, turning them over and over in his mind, polishing them like a treasure. They get him through another day, and then another, and then another.   
  
Dr. Kozak is the only constant in his new world of monitors and tubes, Merrick will occasionally make an appearance to congratulate him in his soft and eager way, and to assure him he is the father of a new age of modern medicine. It all generally goes in one ear and out the other, Merrick's words paint an unattainable horizon to him.  
  
Dr. Kozak, however-  
  
\- she never says much, letting her steady movements and brisk steps do much of the talking she doesn't. A woman with a mission, her. She's the key to his wants and Merrick's, although she appears unaffected and undisturbed by that, and goes about her work with silent but obvious zeal. He wonders how she sees him, it's hard to work out whether he's piece of meat or a fascinating anomaly in this situation, he can't for certain be sure of either, not that it _matters_ , but he hasn't had much to think of since he entered the lab. He doesn't think of the team, whether they are wondering about him, or trying to find him, _please, please do not look for me,_ he begs them in his mind. He's right where he wants to be, (so he tells himself) and to come looking for him would only put them all in danger. Yes, he has no illusions about the type of people Merrick and his lot are, but they're his means to an end.  
  
  
It takes Booker some time to come to the understanding that he's rather like a favored lab rabbit, something treasured and valued for the results it will bring, but still brutally affected to obtain those results all the same. Along the way, he figures he should be glad Kozak and Merrick are patient people, he has a good idea how much more painful things would be if they were _not_.  
  
And there's those small mercies at play again.

  
"You're doing well," Dr. Kozak tells him once - and the way she says it is almost _affectionate_ \- as she slides a needle from under his skin. "I've never had such a cooperative...patient." He's in too much pain to shrug, but he manages what might be a laugh, and then after a bit, some words.   
  
"Cooperating will get us both what we want faster, I think."  
  
She hums in agreement, depositing her find in a clear solution before picking up a different syringe, and waits until it is deep in his neck, until he's gritting his teeth against the pain to respond. "Yes, I think so too."   
  
She never uses anesthesia, but after days, weeks - he can't tell, and doesn't bother to ask - go by, he's come to expect the pain. It's really no worse than the sort of everyday pain he's lived with for literal centuries, and he quickly finds out that one can distract from the other. And with Dr. Kozak, the physical pain is always in a constant and ready supply for him, always there to guide him away from the rawness in his chest and specters dancing in his mind.  
  
He finds that there is certain stability to this situation, a new sense of purpose. He's actively working towards something, this is not a mission that will be inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, an overlooked blip in the radar of time, no, this a plan with an end. And he is the means to that end, in the same way he considers Merrick and Kozak to be his means. He'll just have to put up with what could be years of monotonous pain to get to where he wants., and it's not an appealing prospect for someone who could quite conceivably live indefinitely.  
  
But surprisingly, in the unexpected and fickle way of the world, things get better in their own twisted way. It starts with food, the most basic key to life.

  
  
His meals are mostly delivered via intravenous up to a point, a cocktail of vitamins and fluids, quite capable of keeping him alive, but sterile and devoid of any physical attributes or taste, but when enough time and _tests_ have passed for Dr. Kozak to be certain he isn't going to pull anything ill-advised, she frees him - or at least his hands - to eat meals on his own. He hasn't seen a drop of alcohol since he was...admitted, and it's strictly off limits for the foreseeable future, due to the havoc it could wreak on test results, or so the doctor explains when he requests some - he'd been in a semi-lucid state then, his skull knitting together after having been neatly cracked open, and the words _'I need a drink,'_ had slipped out. He'd amused her with that, he can dimly recall that she'd chuckled a bit -  
  
\- the food is _good_ though _._  
  
Merrick has a personal chef in attendance, and at her disposal, Kozak tells him. She'll eat her own meals in the lab now, a guard or two at the door, but despite that, the clink of another person's silverware is much, much better company than the beeping of machines, it's a small drop of the domesticity Booker left behind. A small comfort to grasp at in his new world.  
  
He begins to look forward to his meals.  
  
Then they start talking. It begins with a small quip, an offhand remark he never expected her to answer - " _So, how is your research going, Doctor?_ " - she surprises him by setting down her fork and launching into a rundown of the day's activities, and how each one links back to the overarching goal. It's speckled with too much scientific jargon for him to fully understand, but apparently, he is showing much _promise._  
  
A bit of bitter pride blooms at that, and a bit of resentment too, _you see, Andy, you see, we can change things. We're going to change things._ From then on it becomes his habit to inquire after himself when she's done for the day. Sometimes she'll indulge his curiosity, sometimes not, but whenever she does it is with the low and benevolent tone a mother might use to tell a tale to a child. Some might find it condescending.  
  
He finds it soothing.  
  
By and by he learns what is needed for _what_ , bone marrow samples are for one thing, blood is for another, choice bits of organs are for cloning purposes, spinal fluid is for myriad of things - the list goes on.  
  
At some point, the issue of semen samples comes up. Which, he supposes he should have been prepared for, she's nearly exhausted all the other fluids his body is capable of yielding.  
  
It becomes a minor point of contention between them, and the first time he hasn't meekly submitted to her wants. Though due to the tenuous little camaraderie that has sprung up between them, they discuss it reasonably, while she's pulling some tissue samples. She's going to get what she wants (needs) so for Booker it's more of a haggle for a pittance of his dignity than it is an actual argument.  
  
"I'll do it myself," he says, gripping the railing of his bed so hard his knuckles turn white as the needle pushes in. "Just...give me some privacy, yes?" she gives him a _look_ then with a titled head, her lips quirking as if to say privacy is moot. Which, it _is_ at this point, he knows. Still. _Still._  
  
He sighs, although it sounds to his own ears like half a sob. " _p our l'amour de Dieu, s'il vous plaît,_" and he doesn't know if she understand him, but she pauses, her hand still on his chest, a finger pressed over the pinprick of blood that marks where her needle has just been. She taps her finger on his chest, smearing the blood on the tip of her glove.  
  
And then nods.  
  
  
She cleans his hands thoroughly with some antiseptic or the other, hands him the sample vial she's prepared and labeled, and retreats to her desk. Not exactly what he had in mind, but it's enough of a compromise for him. He's hardly self-conscious, but he doesn't want someone watching over him.  
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Dr. Kozak doesn't watch him at first, there's no need to. She's quite certain he'll perform to her expectations, he's never done otherwise, and her steady and unbroken progress is proof of that.  
  
As for the man himself - she hadn't given a thought to the person behind the skin and flesh and wealth of material, the skin and flesh being all she was interested in. His existence was the fascinating thing about him, not _him_. 

But he'd become remarkable by being unremarkable. He'd cooperated with her in an almost slavish manner, although much of his cooperation has come in the form of him being a placid bystander, it is still cooperation in its own right. He's given her no interference, even when his own body protests her attempts to gather from it.  
  
She's a woman of science, but to have such a compliant subject certainly means something. Something favorable to her. It's not a sign, because there are no such things as signs or mascots of good luck, but it's a statistic of future success.   
  
And he's become, well, amicable to her. She could have easily found herself with someone who fought her at every turn, made her work that much harder, so she can be excused if she looks forward of the easiness of the months and perhaps years to come. It's never been _easy_ for her to make the progress she so wants to, until Merrick employed her, and promised her the future. The future being the man on her examining table, who lies still under her instruments and eats his meals with curious relish, who asks _why_ and _what_ _for_ with genuine interest after watching her remove pieces of him. It's a...novelty.  
  
It's not attraction in its common and most thought about form, but more of an extreme interest that would border on the unprofessional in any other setting; but this is _her_ world, there is no one here to police her actions or interests. That her interest could lead to danger for her and her work is of course a valid concern, but the probability for that is steadily growing smaller.  
  
And that the man himself might refuse her interest is an even more insignificant problem, as he did, in the most technical and meaningless of terms, _consent_ to her.  
  
  
So she does watch him, gauging the micro-expressions on his face and the way his wrist rolls, the climbing numbers on the monitor as his heartbeat quickens, the groan and the sigh, and then the way his head lolls back as he comes.

She leaves her desk and crosses the room to him, tugs the vial from his hand and caps it firmly, then sets it aside, bringing her hand up to her mouth afterwards and licking off the fluid dotted on it, while he watches her, wide-eyed.  
  
  
\--  
  
He'd been as careful as he could, but it was impossible to get the sample requested into the vial without making a mess - he hasn't had much practice in being _precise_ when masturbating, not that he even does that much to begin with - so it would naturally be inevitable for her to come into contact with what he'd smeared on the rim and sides of the vial, but her cleaning it from her hands in the manner she just did was not, _never_ in the calculations.   
  
In any other situation, an action like that would be arousing, _sensual_ could be used depending on the person, but she does it methodically, clinically, _tasting_ the cloudy fluid. It's such a bizarre thing, but somehow strangely normal. The resolution of a buildup he didn't know was occurring.   
  
He moves to tuck himself away, because maybe if he isn't in such a compromising position he'll better be able to make sense of things, but her hand touches his wrist and he stops immediately. She moves to guide his hand back to the straps on the bed's railing, and he lets her bind it back down, but when she reaches for the other one he shakes his head.  
  
"Let me have that one." he says. He has a view of where this is heading, and he'd much rather have a hand free during it. Once again, and much to his surprise, she acquiesces, and he reaches between his thighs to fumble himself back to hardness. For all he knows, this could be another facet of her research, and he must needs go along with it. She watches him briefly, then with a little hop for leverage, climbs up onto the bed and swings a leg up and over his, straddling his hips. He shifts under her, distributing her weight, and she in turn spreads her hand flat on his chest, bracing herself.  
  
Her other hand moves down, her fingers curling under the hem of her skirt and hitching it up past her thighs. He has a brief moment of doubt then, which he lets slip past. There's not many objections he can make in his position, and Dr. K is not by any means an unattractive woman, though she's older, but what does that matter to man whose lived for as long as he has? He's twice her age and more.  
  
There's some more adjusting on both their parts, and then she's easing down onto him, a long unfelt sensation that overwhelms him. He grabs for the railing with his free and faintly trembling hand, but she catches it and redirects it, settling it open-palmed on the junction of her waist and hip. He curls his hand in almost immediately to grip a handful of her crisp lab coat instead, but she doesn't seem to mind.  
  
Booker doesn't move with her when she begins to, slow and steady like her hands are in during a surgery, and it's not something she appears to want or expect of him. That's fine. He'd much rather lay still and let her do as she pleases - as he always does.  
  
Though, he'd been expecting it to be as painful as anything else that happens to him in this place, but it isn't. But then, it's not pleasurable either. It simply _is_ , the warmth and wet and her weight rocking above him is just what's happening in this moment. He closes his eyes, sinks back into his mind, and relishes the absence of pain.   
  
  
She cleans him up afterwards, and it feels as much the same as if she were sopping up his blood after an operation. He's aware that she finished, but he didn't, which is quite for the best. Not that he doesn't think she wouldn't immediately set things to rights if he had, he simply does not want to consider the barest possibility of... _that_.  
  
"Was that for your research, doctor?" he asks when she's standing at his bedside again, her skirt smoothed down and gloves on her hands as she examines the vial. The corner of her mouth turns up, her finger taps against the vial.  
  
"No. It was for me."   
  
Well, that answers the question of whether the incident was impulsive or pre-mediated, and whether it will be repeated. He doesn't find himself hostile to the prospect. They've come to understand each other in a way, this is just an expression of that. And trust. She trusts that he will not harm her, or use the opportunity for escape. He has no intention of doing either.  
  
  
  
The next day his meal comes with an interesting addition. " _Foie gras_ , doctor?"  
  
She scoops a bit delicately into her mouth, gives him one of those smiles-not-smiles. "It's the only French food I know." He has to laugh. It's not a reward, and it's not meant to be. He eats it, and doesn't miss the irony. Now, Nicky hates foie gras, on account of the role certain birds play in its making. And as Booker is currently in the birds' place, it's surprising how much he enjoys it. Although, he thinks - as he licks his spoon clean - he may be the only bird in the history of the dish to willing put his liver at disposal.   
  
  
  


Willing or not, he had his doubts occasionally - he's only human, after all. One day, unprompted, he confesses some to Dr. Kozak. "Is this necessary?" he says, his voice growing steadily weaker to the beat of his blood draining away from his body. She's been bleeding him out, to see just how fast his body replenishes the blood, it's part of some project regarding his bone marrow. He's fond of it despite his reservations, it's a much less painful way to die. He just can't see in the grand scheme of things, how it will be particularly illuminating to her.  
  
She's quiet for long enough that he thinks he'll die without an answer, when she gives him one. The kiss comes as a pleasant surprise, soft and dry between his eyes. In the approaching horizon of death, it can be mistaken for one of his long-gone children, wishing their _papa_ a goodnight. "It is." it's not placating, but matter-of-fact. And he has no reason not to believe her.  
  
She's never done anything she hasn't needed to before.  
  
  



End file.
